Dies Nefastus
by BabalooBlue
Summary: Wilson's having one of those days. House tries to help - but does he? A fun story, nothing serious. Enjoy! *Collaboration with Brighid45* ***COMPLETE***
1. PROLOGUE

**PROLOGUE**

There had been signs. House had just been too bleary-eyed to read them for what they were.

The strong smell of Febreze, with a slight, but recognizable base note of burnt toast in the kitchen gave him pause, and when he spotted the single coffee ring on the otherwise pristine counter, he began to connect the dots.

There was the black umbrella leaning next to the front door that he had walked past on his way from the bathroom. Someone had either been in a hurry or had decided to ignore the weather warning in place for today.

And he noticed the lunchbox filled with something that looked like a pre-schooler's plasticine model, but was probably meant to be Wilson's lunch - forgotten in the fridge. House shuddered and reached past it to pull out some leftover pizza for breakfast.

He then remembered the banging that had woken him earlier. At the time he had just pulled a pillow over his head and gone back to sleep.

Wilson wouldn't tolerate a coffee stain on his precious kitchen counter. He wouldn't leave without an umbrella when the forecast called for rain. And that carefully prepared lunch, however disgusting it looked, was meant to be sitting in the fridge in the oncology lounge by now.

Following up on the noise that had woken him earlier in the morning, House discovered a used mug and a cracked plate dumped in the sink instead of washed on the draining board, and the burnt remains of two slices of bread in the trash.

He turned to get some coffee from the thermos Wilson thoughtfully filled every morning but found yesterday's offerings instead, cold by now. He poured a cup anyway and nuked it. While he waited for the microwave to do its job, he munched on cold pizza and speculated on what could've happened to disrupt Wilson's morning routine that much.


	2. ONE

**ONE**

The day had not started well for Wilson. He was glad to have made it into the office, even if the morning's first appointment had been Mrs Donaldson, who regaled him with her five grandchildren's school reports before she finally got down to the questions she had actually wanted to ask.

But for once he didn't mind. After the morning's mishaps, his office seemed like something of a refuge. Nothing had gone right-absolutely nothing. His alarm had woken him in the middle of a wild dream, where he'd been trapped in an endless day at work with more and more patients coming in and none leaving, and no one to help him. Once he was awake, he'd gotten up to take a shower and calm down, and ended up getting scalded when someone had flushed the toilet. ('Someone' being House, of course.)

And to top it off, when he'd finally decided to make breakfast, he'd found there was no coffee in the cupboard, just a crumpled, empty bag. He was desperate, so he did what he had seen House do numerous times; he poured some of yesterday's coffee from the thermos and placed the mug in the microwave. One sip was enough to convince him that House must have no taste buds at all - disgusted, he poured the coffee down the sink.

And as a final insult, the toaster had incinerated his bread. House liked his just short of completely carbonized, and Wilson had forgotten to check the timer setting. Now he was un-caffeinated and reeked of burnt toast, and to top it off, he'd hurled the plate into the sink in a fit of annoyance and cracked it. He couldn't change his clothes either; he hadn't done laundry or dropped off his suits at the dry cleaners, having planned to do so that weekend. He ended up having to take off his suit and spray down every inch of it with Febreze. He usually kept several bottles around with different fragrances, but his supply was down to something called 'Clean Auto'. It was better than burnt toast, but he was fairly sure it would smell odd outside of a dealer's showroom. Well, any port in a storm.

So Wilson pried five minutes free from his morning schedule and bought an overpriced, lackluster breakfast at the cafeteria. A cup of anemic coffee and a stale bagel was better than nothing.

By the time he had reached his office, the coffee was cold and tasted even worse than what he'd refused to drink at home. He sat down, pulled a file from his to-do tray and took a bite of the bagel while he went through his notes. He left it at one bite because it was so dry that he had to drink half of the coffee to be able to swallow it at all. Cold lousy coffee and a bagel apparently made of concrete. Breakfast of champions.

After another taste he finally gave up, dumped the rest into the waste basket and then went out to hand the file to Sandy, his assistant.

"Sandy, can you make a copy of Mr. Riley's last results and pass them on to his new doctor? Somehow they weren't included when he moved and we sent on his information. The address is at the back of the file."

"Sorry, that'll have to wait, Dr. Wilson. The copier is on the blink again. Looks like another paper jam. I tried to fix it, but no luck. I've already called maintenance, but you know how slow they are."

She was very apologetic when it wasn't even her fault. Their machine was a liability. They'd had maintenance down to look at it at least once a month since the day it was set up. He should really get a replacement. Maybe the warranty was still good. He would have Sandy check that later.

"I'll go take a look at that jam-up now." He ignored Sandy's doubtful look. "Hey, I do know how to fix basic stuff. That copier's given me plenty of on-the-job training." It was a poor joke, but it got a smile out of his assistant at least. "Come on, let's go figure out what's wrong."

The machine sat in its usual spot, beeping softly. A red problem light glowed on the button panel. Wilson approached with caution-silly really, the copier wouldn't pounce on him after all, but he always felt wary of the thing for some reason. Sandy followed behind. _Using me for a shield_ , Wilson thought. Aloud he said "When we get back to the office, why don't you look up the warranty information."

"Good idea," Sandy said, and stopped. Wilson kept going until he was at the control panel. The red light glared up at him like an unblinking eye. He squinted at the tiny print on the button.

"'Low toner,'" he said after a moment. "But we just put some in a couple of weeks ago." He paused. "Um . . . have you seen someone from House's team over here lately?" House often sent his fellows out to do his copying, apparently with specific instructions to use the machine dedicated to pediatric oncology.

"Not since Dr. Hadley did that big batch two months ago and got everything caught up." There was a slight hint of disdain in Sandy's voice that made Wilson smile. His assistant didn't think much of House, mainly because he dumped his office work on his fellows. "But I know she refilled the toner after that."

The current team didn't seem all that willing to do House's scutwork, and Wilson imagined that Thirteen had told House he could do his own admin in future. Of course that meant nothing would ever get done.

"Huh. Okay, that's odd." Wilson crouched down and opened the door to the copier's interior. Maybe he had been a bit cocky earlier, because now that he looked at it, he didn't know where to start. But how hard could this be? Surely there was a manual somewhere? He couldn't ask Sandy to find the instructions, though, not after he had declared this was basic stuff. He peered into the machine and wondered where the toner reservoir was.

"The toner thingy is on the lower right," Sandy said.

"Toner thingy," Wilson muttered. He stared at the right side of the workings and thought he saw what looked like a reservoir or container. "That-is that it?" He pointed. Sandy came a step closer.

"Yeah, that's it." She hesitated, then went on. "The cartridges are in the bottom drawer. You open the container and put one in, then close the top."

Wilson reached in and took out a cartridge. At least it had a recognizable top and bottom, and there appeared to be pictures on the side showing how to place it in the container. He drew in a breath, then leaned forward and reached in. He felt for a clasp or latch, found one on the right side, and pushed up. The container popped open. He breathed a sigh of relief, echoed by Sandy, who now stood behind him.

"Don't throw the old cartridge away," she said. "We can return it for money off the new ones."

"Whatever," Wilson said under his breath. He took the (presumably) empty cartridge out and put in the new one, then closed the lid. The instructions said that was all he needed to do . . . He glanced at the button panel. The red light still glowed, and the beeping hadn't stopped. "How come it's still saying the toner is low?"

"You have to reboot the copier. Turn it off and then on again."

"I know what 'reboot' means!" Wilson snapped. Immediately he regretted the loss of control. "Sorry-I'm sorry. Didn't mean to yell."

"It's okay. This thing is enough to drive anyone crazy. We need a new copier!" Sandy sounded indignant, and Wilson almost smiled.

"We'll see what we can do," he said, and pushed the power button. After a suitable interval, he started the copier again. The machine went through a lengthy series of self-checks. Just as Wilson started to get up, the beeping started again, and the red light clicked on. " _Shit_ ," he growled, and stared at the light. "We just put the stupid cartridge in, why is it still saying the toner is out?!"

"Maybe you didn't put it in right," Sandy said. She sounded a little hesitant. "Maybe I should-"

"No, I'll fix it!" He reached up, pried the container open, and yanked out the cartridge, intent on turning it over. A cloud of powder exploded from one end. On instinct Wilson pulled back, but it was too late. He had powder all over the front of his shirt and trousers.

"Don't brush it with your hands!" Sandy said sharply, as he tried to dust the stuff off his clothes. "You'll never get it out of the fabric. Come with me."

He was too furious to even speak and put up no resistance when Sandy took his arm and gently pulled him away from the machine. All he could think of were his ruined clothes and that he didn't even have a spare pair of pants in this office. And they were properly ruined, this wasn't just a small stain. The stupid toner was all over. It was everywhere!

"Uh oh, Jimmy's got a widdle problem." That sardonic, amused voice was all too familiar. Wilson felt his face grow warm.

"House," he said, and saw Sandy flinch a bit. She was a little scared of the other man, though she'd never admit it. "You-you were-how long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to know you have NO idea how to change toner in a copier."

"And I suppose you do?" Wilson said. He tried to keep the anger out of his voice.

"Nope. But at least I admit it and let someone else take care of things. You know, sort of like some department to maintain things around here. Hey! That's it! Call Maintenance and have them deal with it!" The cheerfulness in House's voice grated on Wilson's nerves.

"We _did_ call. They won't be here before the end of the day, and we can't wait that long. Unlike you, I keep up with my paperwork."

"And there's your problem," House said, still cheerful. "If you put it off until the stack's too big to ignore, you can dump it on someone else. Then you won't have to worry whether the copier's working or not. It's the problem of the person dumb enough to do the copying and collating."

"I'm not-I don't-I won't do that to Sandy!"

House shrugged. "And now you see the consequences." He straightened and paused, sniffed the air. "Hmm," he said after a moment. "For an older car with high mileage, you smell awfully new and shiny." He limped off down the hall. Wilson watched him go, seething.

"Okay boss," Sandy said after a short, tense silence. "Let's get you cleaned up."


	3. TWO

TWO

To Wilson's bemusement, there was a homemade toner clean up kit in the breakroom. Apparently, his wasn't the first copier-related accident around here. Sandy used a brush to get rid of the loose powder, and a cotton swab dampened with rubbing alcohol to remove anything embedded in the fabric. It worked on everything except a sizeable spot on Wilson's shirt. "You must have gotten some oil or grease on it earlier and the toner soaked in somehow," Sandy said as she worked. Her tone was neutral, but Wilson heard the anxiety behind it.

"Of course it's on the front, where I can't hide it," he said and tried not to sound morose. He hadn't succeeded if Sandy's expression was anything to go by. "Maybe . . . maybe no one will notice."

He could wear a lab coat, that might cover it up. One look down the front of his shirt, though, and it became clear he would have to keep the coat buttoned up to the top if he didn't want the toner stain to show.

"That won't look weird at all."

"Sorry?" Sandy gave him a puzzled look.

"It doesn't matter." There was nothing for it, he'd have to wear the lab coat. He could just imagine what House would have to say about _that._

The rest of the morning was uneventful, even if the coat he had grabbed from the doctor's lounge was a bit uncomfortable buttoned up that far. He kept shifting in his chair during appointments and just hoped his patients didn't think he was bored.

Sandy put in a call regarding the warranty which, as it turned out, was still good for another month. The manufacturer assured her they would send someone out to look at the problem. Until then, they would just have to do their copying on another department's machine. Actually, Wilson had a good mind to send her over to Diagnostics. Cuddy would probably agree that unused resources were a waste of good money. Wilson smiled to himself. Yes, the next batch of copying would definitely go over to House's machine.

House had been suspiciously absent since the copier debacle, and Wilson felt as if maybe, just maybe, all the drama was behind him. He hoped that he would be able to finish his work in peace and then go home and relax. If there were no emergencies he might even be able to leave early. After the day he'd had so far, he deserved a little treat. Maybe he would cook a nice dinner just for himself tonight, make a change from take out. He could even pick up a good bottle of wine on the way home.

Thinking about dinner made him realize how hungry he actually was. Those two bites of dry bagel hadn't kept him going for long. And he had more paperwork to do this afternoon. Lunch it was, then.

He stayed clear of House's office on his way to the cafeteria. He'd had enough trouble today to last him for the next six months, he wasn't about to invite more by having House nearby. Let the man's team deal with him today.

The line at the cafeteria was lengthy and didn't seem to be moving much at all. Wilson grabbed a tray and looked over the offerings. He was about to choose a salad when a long arm reached out from behind him and took two slices of cake, then dumped them on his tray. Wilson closed his eyes for a moment.

"House," he said. "I don't want cake."

"Good, I get both slices." House grabbed a brownie and some jello. Wilson was reminded of the cafeteria scene in _Animal House._ _How appropriate_ , he thought sourly.

"If I throw a stick, would you go away?" he snapped.

House snorted in amusement, leaned in and stared at the server behind the steam table. "Two burgers, one naked, and a triple order of fries."

"The plates aren't big enough for that," the server said. She sounded bored.

"Just put it on the tray then. Who cares?"

" _I_ care!" Wilson said loudly. He abandoned his tray and stalked off to the cashier. "A large coffee," he said, jaw clenched.

"Jimmy, you forgot your tray!" House shouted, so the whole cafeteria could hear. The cashier looked at Wilson, eyes wide.

"Just the damn coffee," Wilson growled. "Sometime today, please." His stomach rumbled, and he felt his temper rise another few degrees.

"You drink all that caffeine, you'll be in and out of the bathroom for the rest of the day," House said behind him. The tray slid past Wilson, loaded with food - an enormous pile of fries on one plate, two burgers on another, and the _a la carte_ items House had chosen, along with several large cookies and a carton of chocolate milk.

"Somebody has to pay for everything," the cashier said. Wilson drew in a deep breath, let it out.

"Fine," he said and shut up. He didn't trust himself to say anything else. The cashier rang up the bill; it came to mid-double digits. Wilson handed over his card and tried not to think of how he'd have to do without lunch for the next week to stay on budget. In silence, he took the coffee when it was handed over, stared at the tray in front of him and realized there was no space for it among House's pile of food. He didn't have to turn to know the other man was lurking behind him, watching his every move, so he didn't bother. Instead, he grabbed a handful of fries and pushed them right on top of that disgusting looking square of jello. There, now there was space. He took his coffee, placed it with exaggerated care on the tray, and took the entire order to a table, with House trailing behind. He thought he heard a soft chuckle, but didn't bother to react.

Wilson was fully aware of the whole cafeteria watching their progress down the aisle. Of course the only free table was at the far back. Typical. He should have gone for lunch earlier, to beat the rush. He kept his eyes on the tray, anxious not to drop anything. Then he remembered the toner stain on his shirt. He paused, torn between humiliations.

"Which one will it be, I wonder?" House said. He plopped into the booth seat and stared up at Wilson. There was a sharp glint in those bright blue eyes. "Show everyone your nasty stained shirt, or dump all that food you just paid for on the floor. Quite the quandary." He reached out and stole a fry, munched it. "Hurry up and decide, I'm starving."

"You know, I could have told you to take this damn tray yourself," Wilson said. He tried to sound reasonable, neutral, but it came out pissy and resentful, even he could hear it. "I could have refused to pay for all this junk you don't need, judging by the love handles adorning those snake hips of yours. And for your information, the stain on my shirt isn't my fault!"

"Why Wilson, I never knew you even noticed my hips." House quirked an eyebrow. '"Adorning'? You swallowed a dictionary for breakfast this morning. No wonder you didn't finish your toast."

"Oh, shut up!" Wilson plunked the tray down on the table, stain be damned, and took the seat opposite House, only to watch in disbelief as the other man picked up a fork and dug a chunk of jello and fries from the plate, and ate them together.

"I'm continually reminded that you're in disguise as a responsible adult," he said after a few moments. House licked his thumb and went in for more.

"Guess I need a new cover," he said. "You're full of shit, by the way."

Wilson blinked. "I-what?" He took a cautious sip of coffee.

"No one forced you to change that stupid toner cartridge. You decided to do that on your own, and a boo-boo happened. Now you're all bent out of shape." House picked up his burger. "Control freak."

Wilson knew that accusation held some truth in it, but he had to protest anyway. "I am not!" House took a large bite, chewed twice, swallowed and began humming a painfully out-of-tune rendition of 'Let It Go'. Wilson winced. "House-stop that damn noise! I am not a control freak!"

House kept humming, took the carton of chocolate milk and began to fiddle with the straw. "All those years of research and they still haven't figured out an easy way of opening these things." He pushed in the straw a bit too forcefully, and at an angle. "Oops." Chocolate milk squirted across the table, right onto Wilson's shirt.

"You-you, you did that on purpose!" Wilson was momentarily lost for words. "You're such an ass! That'll never come out now." He found a couple of napkins stuffed under the second burger. They'd be no good; they were all soggy and greasy.

"Very progressive. I think I saw something similar at the MoMA last month," House said between slurps. "You could sell your shirt and have all your alimony payments taken care of for life." Wilson imagined his hands around House's neck. "Just think, you'd be giving them the shirt off your back. That's so _you_."

This was it. The last straw. Wilson felt his face flush. Unreasoning fury filled him, try as he might to push it down. He got to his feet, picked up his coffee, pried off the lid, and poured the contents on House's fries. He took his time and made sure none of it splashed on the table. When he was done he tossed the empty cup atop the now-sodden potatoes, gave House a little salute, and walked away, his back straight. He didn't even bother to hide his stained shirt under the lab coat. Fuck it, let everyone see how his day had gone!


	4. THREE

**THREE**

"Sandy," Wilson had stopped off at her desk on his way from the cafeteria. He angled his body away from anyone who might be passing, waited until she made eye contact and lowered his voice. "I need you to get me some scrubs."

He opened his lab coat a little so she could see the freshly added and, frankly, smelly addition to his stain collection. Only when he saw the wary look on her face did it occur to him that he looked like a flasher - hushed tone, body averted from everyone else, and now he even opened his coat for her. He felt his face flush again.

"Sorry-I'm sorry. I'm an idiot." He cleared his throat. "I'm not-I just- _damn_ ," he sighed.

"If you mean that you shouldn't go to lunch with Doctor House, then I would agree, yes." Sandy relaxed a bit. "Give me ten minutes, boss. I'll find something for you to wear."

"Just-no floral designs, okay? Please?" He couldn't even begin to imagine what a nightmare _that_ would be. Sandy smiled.

"You got it."

She did return after about ten minutes, with a set of basic blue scrubs still wrapped in plastic, as well as a few packs of peanut butter crackers and a can of soda, the last items undoubtedly from the vending machines.

"Your stomach is growling," she said when Wilson raised an eyebrow.

It didn't surprise him that she had picked up on that. He hadn't really eaten anything substantial today. So he just took the scrubs and the food and thanked Sandy. "What would I do without you?"

"Go hungry on a bad day, I guess," she replied and went back to her desk. Wilson stared at her retreating figure for a moment, then felt a chuckle come up out of him, reluctant but still genuine.

He had to change in the restroom since there was nowhere to do so privately in his office. Not if there was a chance that House might be lurking out on the balcony. No thanks. He'd take his chances in the bathroom and be done with it.

The scrub top looked ridiculous over his neatly pressed trousers and leather shoes. Wilson thought about changing into the bottoms too, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He'd have people thinking either he was a pretentious jerk for running around in pristine scrubs, or else that he'd been in surgery, which would lead to questions from colleagues and possibly even Cuddy. He'd had enough complications for one day.

Clean and no longer smelling of sickly sweet chocolate milk and toner, he went back to his desk. There was still a pile of work to get through. And hopefully, there would be no further interruptions. He really wanted to get home and forget all about this disastrous day.

Slowly he settled into the mundane details of files, case notes, comments, schedules. The routine and the sound of rain against his office window helped him calm down somewhat; as he worked, he munched crackers and drank the soda, even though it slowly grew warm and flat. It washed down the crackers at least.

The next time he looked up was when Sandy stuck her head through the door. "Sorry, Dr. Wilson. I did knock, but, um…"

He had nodded off. He had actually nodded off. He couldn't believe it.

"Yes, um, sorry, I was thinking about… um, about how best to proceed with, um, with… with Mrs. Donaldson," he stammered. Damn. Bad choice. There was no doubt how to proceed with Mrs. Donaldson. None at all.

"Ah yes, sure." She smiled. Dammit, she knew. "I only came in to bring you today's mail before I go. I'll leave it right here."

She set a stack of papers, bigger than normal, on the edge of his desk closest to her and left in a hurry. Her usual 'see you on Monday, Dr. Wilson' was cut off by the door closing behind her.

Wilson shook his head and stretched his back. He could feel the vertebrae in his neck pop. It was time to go home. He would pick up a nice bottle of wine and maybe take-out on his way. One glance at the clock told him that he would probably be able to avoid House, provided he and his team had a case. Even better. He could do without further humiliation today. He just wanted a quiet evening at home, go to bed early and forget today had ever happened.

First, he needed to double check there was nothing important in the mail, though. He pulled over the papers Sandy had so hastily dropped off and scanned through them. Two application letters for a position he had filled last week, several invitations to talks and conferences and a handful of consult requests. Nothing that couldn't wait until Monday.

When he put the letters into his in-tray, he found a little box underneath, neatly wrapped in yellow paper and tied with a pink ribbon. It hadn't come in the mail since there was no address. There was no gift tag either. One of his patients had probably passed it to Sandy, a little too embarrassed to give him the gift personally.

Wilson smiled to himself. This wasn't the first gift he had received from a patient. As it was, no matter what was inside, it would probably be the one thing to make his day a little better. He didn't really care what his patients gave him. It was the thought that counted. Although, most of the time the gifts were very personal, with some deeper meaning for the giver rather than the receiver.

Still smiling, he pulled on the ribbon. The lid of the box popped open and with a quiet and - as he would later remember it - almost innocent, little 'poof', a cloud of something escaped the box. A rainbow of color seemed to be everywhere all at once. Wilson instinctively closed his eyes and rolled his chair back, but he had a feeling he was too slow to escape whatever had just happened. When he cautiously opened one eye, he found he was right. Glitter covered almost everything on the desk. It also coated his front, from the knees up. No doubt his face hadn't escaped either . . . As if in confirmation, a dot of glitter drifted down in front of his right eye, followed by more colorful bits. Slowly Wilson tipped his head forward and was rewarded with more glitter - a lot more. It fell gently, in charming little flutters and swirls, to land on his trousers.

There was no doubt in Wilson's mind who this was from. Obviously not a patient. Furious, he pushed off from his desk and ran out onto the balcony. Usually, he was careful when he climbed over the low barrier that separated the two office spaces, but this time he just vaulted over it. He nearly made it too, but at the last moment his right foot caught on the top of the wall. With a massive effort, he managed to stagger off to the side to stay upright but slipped as his foot came down in a puddle. He gasped as he pulled a hamstring in the process and came up against House's office door, his face pressed hard into the glass.

It took him a moment to catch his breath. When he was finally able to focus his gaze, he saw House's team seated at the conference room table, with a large stack of files in the middle. But they weren't looking through files. All of them had their faces turned in his direction, and each had a different expression-concern, astonishment, puzzlement, even cool amusement. Wilson knew then the only way to preserve the tiny sliver of dignity he might still possess was to go in, guns blazing. He pulled back from the glass and tried the door. It was locked. _Of course it is_ , he thought. In a fresh surge of rage, he hammered on it, a flurry of hard blows that rang like bells on the tempered surface.

" _HOUSE!_ " he shouted and banged on the door again. He noticed glitter on the glass, where his face had pressed against it. "Goddammit _HOUSE!_ Open this door NOW!"

House, who had been leaning against a bookshelf and had probably seen all of Wilson's acrobatic approach from that vantage point, finally took pity on him and cracked open the door.

"Yes?" he asked coolly. "Where's the fire?"

"I… you… House!" Wilson stammered, lost for words. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed every single team member had a phone in hand, discreetly recording what was going on. His head began to throb in unison with his heartbeat.

"Come in, come in, you'll catch a cold out there," House said cheerfully and dragged Wilson inside. "You're right on time. We're discussing this poor idiot's case, and Chase thinks it's paraneoplastic syndrome. Can you tell him why he's a moron?"

Disoriented now, Wilson stared at him. " . . . what?" he said finally, his outrage damped down by this matter-of-fact approach.

"Come on Wilson, keep up! My team needs your help." House quirked an eyebrow. "Nice makeup job. You look very trendy. I hear the Pride parade's next week, though."

"Don't… don't act as if you don't know what's going on. This is all your doing!" He didn't even know where to start. The coffee. Burnt toast. He probably still reeked of Febreze. Toner. The chocolate milk. Scrubs. And now THIS. "You know exactly what this is about. Stuff your para… paraneoplastic syndrome, House!"

House had the nerve to look shocked. " _Moi?_ You're blaming your problems on little old me?"

"You sent me that-that-whatever it was with the glitter in it! As if dumping chocolate milk down my front wasn't bad enough!"

"You poured coffee on my fries," House said. He sounded defensive, but there was a gleam of unholy amusement in his eyes that made Wilson's head pound even harder.

"Your fries? _Your_ fries? I don't remember you paying for them. Just like you haven't paid for any of your lunches in… in, I don't know, a decade!" He saw Thirteen angle her phone toward him. "Turn that damn thing off!"

"You have that ACLU app, right?" House said, clearly addressing Thirteen. "You know, the one where you can send a vid before the cops take your phone and taser you?"

"I'm-I'm not-I won't take her phone! I-I don't-I don't even own a fucking taser!" Wilson wiped at some sweat near his eye. His hand came away with traces of glitter. "It's going to take weeks to get this crap out of my office!"

"You probably have some in your belly button," House said cheerfully. "It'll make your lint look festive."

For some reason, that infuriated Wilson all over again. It felt like his head was about to explode. "I do not need festive lint! Or festive anything else, for that matter!"

He heard his own voice go all squeaky. His pulse was probably through the roof, and with his head feeling like it did, he was afraid he'd have a stroke any moment now.

A hand fell on his shoulder.

Wilson whipped round. "What now?"

It was Taub with a glass of water in his hand. He pulled over a chair. "Here," he said with barely disguised amusement. "Maybe you should drink this. You look like you need it."

Taub's gentle tone, his calm demeanor was what did it.

"I don't need a damn glass of water!" Wilson roared. "All I need is for people to leave me the hell alone! Let me get on with my day! Is that too much to ask?!"

He noticed his field of vision narrowing down and knew he should lower his voice. Someone would call security. But he couldn't stop himself.

He saw people slowing down outside the office, curious to see what was going on.

House grinned at him. "Don't worry, I've got this." He limped to the door, cracked it open and shouted, "there's nothing to see here, it's all under control. Nobody's having a meltdown. Y'all can move right along."

When House turned around and Wilson saw the laughter in his eyes, he'd had it. This was it, the final, final straw. But he was done shouting. He was done with all of this. Done with this hospital, done with appliances that didn't work. And mostly, done with House.

He brushed past House, dislodging more glitter in the process, yanked open the door and then slammed it behind him, hard enough to make the entire wall quiver.

The last thing he heard was an admiring ' _wow!'_ from Thirteen.


	5. FOUR

**FOUR**

Wilson arrived at his car after striding through the foyer full of righteous fury, to discover he'd left his briefcase in his office. And he was still covered with glitter. Well, the hell with it tonight. He was in no mood to work on anything at home over the weekend, and he didn't give a fuzzy pink rat's ass what he looked like at this point. He wanted nothing more than a bath, some clean clothes that matched, and a bottle of wine. No, make that several bottles of wine, and not the cheap stuff either. Screw the damn budget. He wanted good-quality alcohol and plenty of it.

He endured the covert stares and whispers at the state store as he made his choice and paid for it. Let them laugh at him. He'd probably end up on someone's Facebook page; undoubtedly House's team had their vids posted already. Fine, let people make him a laughingstock.

Roughly halfway home, with a case of pinot noir in the trunk and a big hole in this month's budget, he realized that he should have also bought some food. He dimly remembered the fridge being almost empty this morning, except for the leftover pizza in the back House was probably keeping for next week. Well, that would have to do then. He was not turning back now. All he wanted was some peace and quiet. And no more damn drama.

He didn't even realize a cop was following him until the cruiser pulled alongside, lights and siren going. The cop gave him a steely look and motioned to the side of the road. Wilson clenched his jaw, but nodded and looked for a place to stop. He found a parking lot in front of a vacant building and rolled down the window, then shut off the engine. A few moments later the cop strolled up and looked down at him.

"Good afternoon, sir. Do you know how fast you were going?"

Wilson's heart plummeted. "Um . . . no, I don't know, officer."

"Fifty-five in a twenty-five mile an hour zone." The cop leaned forward just a bit. "Celebrating something?"

Wilson knew honesty was the best policy if he didn't want to end up performing a sobriety test. "I know this looks weird, but it's . . . it's just been one of those days, sir. I haven't been drinking. You can check the case in the back, nothing's open." He was glad now that he'd left his briefcase at work; it contained a small baggie of pot along with some papers.

"Uh huh. License and registration, please." Wilson handed over his driver's license and dug the requested papers out of the glove box. The cop took everything and went back to the cruiser. He was there a long time. Wilson began to think of his rap sheet - and he did have one. Of course, any idiot who associated with House for longer than five minutes probably ended up with charges as a matter of course.

Eventually, the cop returned. He looked over the case of wine, then carefully inspected the rest of the car's interior. "Okay, Doctor Wilson," he said. "You're right, no open containers and I don't smell alcohol, just a nice clean vehicle. But I do have to ticket you for going well over the limit."

"Yes sir," Wilson said. The pain in his head was back, but now it was more of a vicious ache behind his eyes. "I . . . I deserve that ticket. I wasn't paying attention to my speed. I'm-I'm sorry, sir."

The officer paused. Wilson hunched his shoulders and watched a few errant bits of glitter fall into the seat.

"I'm sure you have an interesting story to tell, but speeding is speeding. We get kids crossing through here a lot."

Wilson winced. "I understand, sir."

The officer looked at him for another few moments. Then he put away his pad. "I'll let you off with a warning this time. You've got a couple of . . . let's just call them interesting notes in your history, but there's nothing about speeding. Have to say, though, however rotten your day is, you need to pull your head out of your-" He stopped, then went on. "-your thoughts and pay attention to what you're doing."

It was good advice, Wilson mused, as he left the parking lot. He'd do his best to take it.

The loft was quiet and full of shadows when he unlocked the door and brought in the wine. For the first time that day, Wilson felt the tension inside him loosen a little. He hung up his trenchcoat, set the case by the door and opened it, extracted a bottle and went to the kitchen. It only took a minute or two to pull the cork. He left the wine to breathe while he went into his bedroom and peeled off his clothes. His bathrobe felt good, a small comfort.

Once he'd returned to the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of wine and looked longingly at the ugly orange sofa House had insisted they keep. It might be hideous, but the recliner section would be heaven right now. Who cared that he still smelled of Febreze? There was nobody here. The loft was quiet. No music from House's room, no TV blaring. So beautifully quiet. Long may it remain so. He lifted the glass to drink to that - and paused. A piece of glitter floated in it. He sighed, picked it out and drank some more. His stomach growled after the first couple of sips and, for a brief moment, he wondered what would happen if he kept drinking on an empty stomach. No matter. Shower first, or even better, a bath, and then he would check if there was anything edible left in the fridge. In the meantime, one glass wouldn't hurt. Or two. He grabbed the bottle on his way past the kitchen counter.

It seemed like the tub took forever to fill, so he had a second glass of wine while he waited.

At least the water was hot when he finally climbed in. Wilson lowered himself into the steaming heat with great care, then settled with a sigh. Eyes closed, he leaned back and sank down until the water covered his chest. He stayed that way for a few moments, soothed by the warmth as it relaxed tense muscles. Eventually, he remembered the wine. He cracked open an eye and caught a glimpse of glitter floating in the bath water. With a heavy sigh he groped for the wine glass, found it, and brought it to his lips for a long, satisfying gulp of truly excellent pinot noir. Another followed it, and another. When he was finished he slid bonelessly back into the water.

The hot water, together with the alcohol, finally began to work. Tension just floated away from him, like one of those stupid glitter pieces on the water. He savored the taste of the wine, reveled in the quiet, and felt the fury deep inside lessen just a little.

All he needed to relax completely was his lavender bath soak, the one House always teased him about. But House wasn't here now. He was alone, and it was quiet, and he had time to relax. He let his arm drop out of the tub and felt around for the familiar bottle of bath essence, but he came up empty. All he found was the wine bottle. He couldn't very well add that to the bath water.

Reluctantly, Wilson opened his eyes to scan the floor around the tub. Nothing. He finally spotted the bath soak, and several other bottles, a bit further away. Too far away.

It was a toss-up between House and the cleaner; both had a habit of moving things from where he needed them to where he didn't need them.

Wilson struggled up, slid back a little and just caught himself on the edge of the tub before he could slip under water. He giggled, despite himself. If he wasn't careful he'd end up being part of those 'most accidents happen in the home' statistics. Eventually, he managed to pull himself up onto his knees and reached for the bottle of bath soak.

But he had gathered a little too much momentum, and when he hit the edge of the tub, a deluge of water sloshed out onto the floor.

Staring at his slippers, now soaked with glittery water, he could just about see the headlines: _Renowned oncologist drowned in bathtub filled with glitter. Blood alcohol level 0.1. New series starting tomorrow: The Orgies of Princeton._

And, just like that, something gave, the floodgates opened, and he found himself sobbing over the edge of the bathtub. He didn't even try to hold on to what was left of his dignity.

It seemed like it took him a very long time to get himself together again. But it probably hadn't really been all that long, the bathwater was still lukewarm. Wilson sat up, took a few deep, unsteady breaths, and managed to struggle out of the tub.

He didn't bother drying his hair - he would go straight to bed anyway. While he pulled on his robe and collected the wine bottle and his glass, he avoided his reflection in the mirror. He didn't need confirmation that he looked like hell; he was just glad he'd escaped House until at least the following morning.

His hope turned out to be futile - when he opened the bathroom door he could smell cooking from the kitchen.


	6. FIVE

**FIVE**

House heard the bathroom door open and then, after a little pause, close again. _So that's where Wilson's been hiding. Scrubbing off the glitter, no doubt_.

He opened the oven to check on the potatoes. They looked good. The rest of the food could wait for Wilson to actually show up.

There had been a case of wine in the hall when he got home, so he knew pretty much what state Wilson would be in. What he hadn't considered was that the other man would have taken a bath. This changed things considerably, and he hoped Wilson would still be in good enough shape to actually eat what he was about to cook. Alcohol and hot water on an empty stomach didn't mix very well, especially if your name was James Evan Wilson.

After Wilson's dramatic exit from House's office, there had been stunned silence around the table.

"What's got into him?" Chase had looked as surprised and amused as the rest of the team.

Good question. Wilson was usually up for a prank, he wasn't exactly a choir boy in that department. So why did he blow up like this, today? Only one tried and tested way to find out-ply Wilson with alcohol and wait for whatever happened. Of course now that plan would have to be revised, since Wilson had clearly decided to start early on the alcohol portion of the entertainment. This worried House a little. It wasn't Wilson's usual style. Clearly something more had happened than the toner meltdown and the tantrum at lunch. Wilson almost never lost it at work the way he had today.

A shuffling sound in the hallway alerted House to Wilson's imminent arrival. He adjusted the straps on his apron and turned to face the doorway, arms draped along the counter on either side in what he hoped looked like a suave, confident pose-something he knew Wilson would notice but pretend to ignore. After a few moments the other man shambled into view. He wore comfortable clothes-no surprise there: sweats and a tee shirt under his robe. His dark hair was ruffled too, with a bit of glitter near the front, sparkling in the subdued light. The tee shirt was on inside out, House noted wryly. He also noticed Wilson's puffy eyes. This wasn't just a regular bad day, it seemed.

Wilson said nothing, just stood there, wine glass in one hand, bottle in the other. He and House stared at each other for what seemed like far too long.

"Whut… what are you doing here?" Wilson finally said. He looked around and stopped when he saw one end of the counter all set for dinner. House had even found a candle somewhere in the depths of the kitchen. To say Wilson looked confused was putting it mildly.

"I live here, in case you've forgotten." House decided to play it cool.

Wilson's eyes narrowed. House wondered how he could see through those swollen lids. "You . . . you cooked dinner."

"I'm hungry. Figured you might be too."

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Wilson straightened, and the stare turned into a full-on glare. "No," he said. He turned, staggered a little, and went into the living room. House watched him go. After a moment he undraped himself and followed Wilson, to find him contemplating the couch. House leaned a hip against the back of the built-in recliner and said mildly,

"Having trouble deciding where to sit?"

"I know where to sit," Wilson said with immense dignity. "I sit on my ass," and he plopped down onto the cushion. House had to give him credit, he didn't spill the wine from his glass. Not all that far gone then, at least not yet . . . but loosened up enough to be more open than usual, perhaps. House had hoped for this result, as it presented a chance to acquire more information. The fact that it had happened before the softening-up process of a good dinner and some cold beer was not really a problem. They had a microwave if all else failed, and food could be reheated.

"So what happened today?" he asked, and was careful to keep his tone light, a little mocking. "Not the debacle with the copier and lunch. Something else must have gone down for you to be buzzed this early in the evening."

Wilson slowly settled back and took a good-sized sip of wine. "You know perfeckly . . . perfectly well what happened."

"How would I know?" House put a hand on his chest in apparent dismay, even though Wilson couldn't see him. "I was hard at work all day."

"Yeah, I jus' bet you were. You sent that stupid package with the . . . the glitter in it." He took another mouthful of wine. "Why'd you make dinner?"

"Like I said, I was hungry."

Wilson set down the wine bottle with slow deliberation. Then he raised his hand and waggled a finger in House's general direction. "Uh uh uh uh. Nope."

"Nope what?" House asked, intrigued. He sensed a lecture on the way. A drunk-Wilson lecture, the kind he always found both amusing and a little pathetic.

"Nope you didn' . . . didn't just make dinner because you're hungry. You have some . . . other . . . _thing,_ some-some stupid prank you wanna play on me. Don' deny it, you know it's true."

House felt a little sting of hurt. " _Au contraire_ , Wilson." It didn't look like Wilson needed any more pranking today.

"That's exac'ly what you would say if you were going to pull a fast one, so ex… excuse me if I don't believe you." Wilson huffed and made a grab for the remote. With that in one hand and his wine glass in the other, he began to zap through the channels.

It soon became clear drunk Wilson wouldn't be able to settle on anything without some guidance, so House poured some wine for himself and said, "There's a _Bootcamp Babes_ marathon on, you just skipped past it."

Wilson eyed him warily when he joined him on the couch, clearly still distrustful, but he said nothing. House settled back and waited until Wilson looked away, then snitched the remote.

"Hey," Wilson complained after he tried to change the channel with nothing but air. "Hey, give that back."

"Hmm, decisions, decisions," House said. " _Bootcamp Babes_ is pretty good, but the new _Sharknado_ movie is on Syfy. Guess it comes down to boobs or bad CGI."

" _Downton Abbey_ is on." Wilson sounded wistful. House rolled his eyes.

"And you say _I_ watch trash. That stuff will rot your brain." But in a show of good faith (and as a bribe), House changed the channel. He sipped his wine and noted it really was pretty good, not overrated plonk. Granted, he was usually the one who bought the two-dollar chardonnay, but it was still a bit of a surprise. So Wilson wanted to get drunk, but he wanted to do so in style. That meant he felt particularly aggrieved and put upon. It also meant teasing the rest of the story of his day out of him, bit by bit. Well, no time like the present.

They watched in silence for a few minutes. Then House finished his wine and reached for the bottle. He poured a good amount into his glass, swirled it, took a sip. "Something else happened today," he said, and tried for a casual tone. Wilson didn't answer. "Something you clearly don't want to talk about." Silence. "Oookay. I get to guess, that's how this game is played."

"You don' hafta guess anything." Wilson gulped some wine. "Don' hafta do anything. You've done enough today."

"You really do have a mad on," House said. "All over a little glitter and some bad moments. Don't have as much patience as you like to pretend, it seems."

Wilson didn't respond to this shot over the bow, but his face darkened. This encouraged House to push a little more. "I'm getting the impression you think everything that happened today was my fault." Wilson didn't reply. "So that's it. Maybe you should tell me about the other outrages that happened to you."

Slowly Wilson turned his head. "That doesn' . . . doesn' . . . make any sense."

"Now you're catching on. It's about time." House sipped his wine. "I didn't rig this day to make it miserable for you. Just picked a bad time to play an innocent prank." It was pure provocation, but necessary to get things started.

"Innocent isn't a word any-anyone would apply to you," slurred Wilson. "And… and you know why? You jus' don't care. You… you don' give a shiddabout anyone else, you jus' do your own thing, whatever you wanna do."

Well, there it was. Drunk Wilson dropped the mask of civility, usually sooner rather than later. House knew this well. But he also knew that Wilson's anger, and sometimes rage, didn't last long once it was unleashed. He understood it needed to be spent, though, or it would poison everything for days to come. It was like a boil that needed to be lanced, and House was just the man to do it. He could be very skilled with that scalpel when he put his mind to it. And since he didn't feel like dealing with Wilson's sulking, this was the remedy.

"Contrary to what you think, I did actually hope the glitter would cheer you up a little."

It took a little time for the words to sink in. At first Wilson didn't react. Then he frowned, took a good-sized swallow of wine, and finally swiveled his gaze to House. His dark eyes were glassy and a bit unfocused, but it was easy to see the dawning comprehension there.

"Cheer me up?" Wilson blinked and then opened his eyes wide, probably more to see House than an attempt at showing his anger. " _Cheer me up?_ "

"Well yeah," House said. "It got your mind off everything else that happened, didn't it?"

"How was this sup-supposed to cheer me up? All it did was hume… humiliate me-thoroughly. Good job, House."

"Humiliate? That innocent little giftie was just doing its job. If it happened to someone else you'd think it was funny." House sipped his wine. "You just don't want people seeing the head of Oncology looking less than perfect."

Wilson stared at him for what seemed like far too long. House waited to see what would happen next. At last Wilson set down his glass. It took him a few tries, but he managed it. Then he stood slowly, due mainly to the amount of alcohol he'd consumed, undoubtedly.

"Yeah, I . . . I do care 'bout how I look. Unlike you. _You_ ," his words held pointed emphasis, "look like you f-fell out of a laun-laundry hamper."

It was clear this was meant to be a stinging rebuke. House had to bite his lip to keep from cracking up. "There's some truth to that," he admitted mildly, when he could speak. Wilson's eyes narrowed.

"Don' you laugh at me," he growled, and staggered a little. "Don' you _dare_ laugh at me!"

"I'm not," House protested. Wilson drew himself up and pointed at House.

"I know when you're lying an' you're doing it right now." He shook his finger and House nearly bit through his lip to keep the laughter inside. "You . . . you . . . you think . . . you think this is _funny_. Well, it's _not_. It's _mean_. Jus' . . . jus' fucking mean. I try to ac-ac-act like a respo'sibble adult an' you're a fucking eight year old."

"Unlike you, I never claimed to be responsible or adult. But if you really insist on me being all grown up et cetera, then I should point out that you're drunk, you're pissed off, and you should lie down before you fall down."

It took Wilson a few seconds to figure out what House had said. He dropped his arm and shook his head, a slow back and forth movement that made House's suppressed laughter push up another notch. "Fine," he muttered finally. "You . . . you're . . . you're jus' gonna laugh at me, so there's no-" He burped loudly. "'Scuse me. There's no . . ." He trailed off and looked confused.

"No point," House offered.

"Yeah! Tha's it! No point in talking with you, so I'll . . . I'll say g'night."

"Don't forget to set your alarm," called House as Wilson staggered off towards his room. He waited until he heard the muffled click of the latch-even drunk and furious, Wilson would never hard-slam a door in his own home at least-and then let out the laughter he'd kept back for some time now.

"I c'n hear you!" Wilson yelled, which just set House off again. "Laugh all you wan', you-you _ass!_ "


	7. EPILOGUE

**EPILOGUE**

House stayed on the couch for a while after Wilson had left. For lack of anything better to do, he watched that incredibly boring show Wilson seemed to like so much. But he was distracted. And it wasn't just that he kept chuckling about Wilson. Something bugged him, he just couldn't figure out what it was.

It took some servant or other carrying a soup tureen, and a familiar acrid smell, to remind him what it was that he had forgotten. He sat up, his amusement fading fast. Dinner.

The potatoes were well and truly ruined, and so was probably the dish they were in. It was hard to tell through all the smoke. For a long moment he considered closing the oven door on the black, sticky mess and leaving it for Wilson to clean up in the morning. But, enough was enough, there were limits to what Wilson could take. And House didn't want to push it too far. Not over this.

He ended up tossing the potatoes, dish and all, after they'd cooled off in the sink. No way was he going to spend the rest of his evening scrubbing bits of tar out of a casserole that looked even older than he was. He set the oven on self-clean, which took a little time because he'd never used that function before and didn't want to set the kitchen on fire. Then he poured another glass of Wilson's excellent wine and limped back into the living room.

While he sipped the pinot noir and surfed channels, House considered Wilson's day from the other man's point of view.

" _Dies nefasti_ ," he said softly. "Days of ill omen during which no business is conducted. You should have stayed home, Wilson."

Clearly much more had gone on behind the scenes, so to speak; he'd pry the rest of the story out of the other man over the weekend. And the speed with which Wilson got sloshed indicated little or no food in his system-usually he was good for half a dozen beers or most of a bottle of wine before he began to relax and started sniping at House. Of course House knew none of that was really his fault, aside from lunch, but if he wanted to soothe Wilson out of both a hangover and a sulk, breakfast would work nicely. The first course should probably be a glass of water, an aspirin and some B vitamins, but they could start there and move on to something more substantial. He took another sip and smiled. He had just thought of the perfect wake-up music to accompany that first course.

With a chuckle House headed for the computer to look up the chord changes for 'Walking On Sunshine', his mind already torn between using the Gibson six-string or the Flying V.

-The END-


End file.
